Avenging Angels
by alliwantistobreathe
Summary: (A fix-it fic for Constagnan post-finale. I have concocted a really implausible but hopefully fun scenario in which Constance kicks her husband's worthless ass to the curb.) The women of Paris might not agree on much, but on this they are united: Monsieur Jacques Bonacieux is an unredeemable idiot who doesn't deserve his wife. Content Warning: brief mentions of suicide and abuse.


Absolutely everyone in the neighborhood knew that Madame Bonacieux was having an affair with her Lodger at least a week before Monsieur Bonacieux figured it out. Most of the women in the marketplace knew it was going to happen before it even did.

"Well, can you really blame her?" Madame Aubert asked, sighing dreamily over her vegetables. Madame Aubert was a country woman and had romantic sensibilities. "I mean, just _look _at him." The cluster of women crowded around her stand watched avidly as the aforementioned Lodger strolled past. He paused briefly at the sight they presented, gave a small nod and a smile, and continued on his way. They collectively shook their heads.

"Stupid," Madame Lefevre said definitively, her voice ringing like her blacksmith husband's hammer. "The Bonacieuxs are the richest people on this whole street, and she's willing to risk all of that for a handsome face? What's his livelihood, anyway? All he ever does is follow those Musketeers around like a stray dog. Stupid," she repeated.

"I'll bet he's a noble," Madame Aubert continued, as if she hadn't heard Madame Lefevre. "He has that kind of countenance." Madame Lefevre snorted.

"The countenance, maybe, but not the cash!"

"Her husband is not a nice man," the beautiful Madame Giraud chimed in. "He pinched me once, in full view of my husband and everything!" She preened a little. Madame Giraud's vanity was well known, as is the fact that her husband, the local candlemaker, melted like wax in her delicate white hands. The other women exchanged looks of exasperation.

"Much as I hate agreeing with Madame Giraud," Madame Barbier said, "Bonacieux_ is_ a right idiot. He always overcharges and he prays too loudly in church. Besides that, he's always leaving the poor Madame alone to run things while he travels to god-knows-where who-knows-why. He really should have seen this coming. We'll have a fresh batch of baguettes in an hour or so," she added, and because Madame Barbier liked to have the last word, she departed for her bakery with a flourish. The newest and youngest member of their little gang, Madame Julien, the wife of a clerk, quickly replaced her. She glanced around furtively before whispering,

"Are you all talking about the Bonacieuxs?" Her narrow, slightly pinched face was concerned.

"When was the last time anyone talked of anything else?" Madame Lefevre said. Madame Julien gulped.

"It's a sin, what she's doing," she said earnestly. "We ought to pray she remembers her marriage vows and returns to her lord and husband." The Mesdames stared. Madame Aubert let out a single giggle and clapped her hand over her mouth.

"My darling Madame Julien," Madame Giraud raised a single perfectly arched eyebrow. "I understand you haven't been married long." Madame Julien smiled shyly.

"Oh no, only about half a year."

"And your husband is clever and handsome," Madame Aubert said dryly.

"Oh, well, some people say he is." Her blush gave her away completely.

"Monsieur Bonacieux has a face like an aubergine," a voice said brightly. Everyone flinched. The Fishwife, a spry elderly woman missing three teeth, grinned and began to consider the onions on Madame Aubert's stand. "Can't be nice seeing that in action, know what I mean? And when you wake up the next morning you realize he's got vegetable brains too!" The Fishwife laughed like a foghorn, and Madame Julien turned so pale they all thought she might faint.

* * *

Months later, when Madame Bonacieux finally reappeared after her mysterious three-day-long disappearance, the ladies of the market once again mobbed Madame Aubert's vegetable stand.

"Did you see the look of her hair? And that bruise on her cheek!" Madame Julien's eyes were taking up most of her face.

"Do you think the Monsieur did it?" Madame Lefevre asked darkly. "Wouldn't be unheard of, a man driven to violence by an unfaithful wife." No one responded to that. Madame Barbier privately resolved to bring over a basket of pastries for the poor woman.

"Well," Madame Aubert said, "I heard a different story." She lowered her voice to emphasize the importance of her announcement. "I heard she was somehow involved in a shootout between the Musketeers and a group of thieves and highwaymen!" The other women, having leaned in to hear Madame Aubert, stood up straight again, thoroughly disappointed.

"That's obviously not true," Madame Lefevre said, with an air of finality that closed that particular line of inquiry. Madame Aubert sulked.

"It's just what I heard. And it's more interesting than being whacked around a bit by one's husband."

"Oh, don't say it like that," Madame Julien shuddered. "It's too awful. If she'd only given up her affair…"

"Pish!" They all jumped. The Fishwife had arrived again, whistling through the gaps in her gums. "Pick a man who ignores her over a man who loves her? And him a Musketeer 'n' all? Now that's what I'd call stupid!"

"She'll have to!" Madame Giraud stormed upon the scene, looking wild. "I can't even begin to explain to you what that horrible man's done now." She raised her eyes to the heavens and waited. Madame Barbier sighed.

"Mon Dieu, please tell us at once, Madame Giraud. How can we possibly live with the not-knowing," she said mechanically. Madame Giraud snapped her eyes back down and glared.

"It's only that he's gone and tried to kill himself." This had the desired effect upon the assembled audience. Madame Lefevre and the Fishwife both let out oaths and Madame Julien gasped like a storybook heroine. Madame Giraud smirked triumphantly.

"That's not all," she said. "Because my husband saw the whole thing happen. And _he_ says it's none of my business, but he saw Monsieur Bonacieux and the carriage driver before and it seems that Bonacieux might've _paid _the driver to hit him. _Hit_ him, not kill him."

"He was bluffing, that coward!" Madame Barbier exclaimed. This revelation silenced the whole group. Idly, the Fishwife filched a few carrots and began munching. Madame Aubert was too distracted to care.

"We should- " she began, hesitating. "We should… do something. To help her." The others shot her dubious looks.

"Like what?" Madame Lefevre said sharply. She sounded annoyed, but not entirely dismissive, and so Madame Aubert felt it safe to go on.

"I mean… she doesn't deserve this. She should know the truth about her husband. She should be with the Lodger!" Madame Aubert finished this little speech on a rather emotional note. It didn't land quite the way she'd hoped.

"But I don't understand, what are we supposed to do about it?" Madame Julien said at last.

"I have rather a large collection of knives," the Fishwife replied, quite casual.

"Can we please try not to be ridiculous?" Madame Giraud cut in shrilly. "We are – _respectable_ – women. It's one thing to gossip, _quite_ another to actually do anything. Just because Madame Bonacieux's reputation is ruined doesn't mean ours have to be!"

"But we could be like knights in a fairytale," Madame Aubert said, getting into it now. "Saving the lady from the evil king and delivering her to her true love!"

"It couldn't hurt just to tell her the truth about the Monsieur," Madame Barbier said, trying to remain practical. "We'll just let her decide what's right for her to do." Madame Lefevre nodded, her expression grim but almost amused.

"I've got no loyalty to a man like that. If she wants to ruin her life with the boy, let her. It's her life after all."

"Suicide is a sin," Madame Julien said very quietly. "I don't know what pretending to attempt suicide in order to keep your wife from leaving you is, but I don't think it can be good." Madame Aubert beamed at her.

"Well if everyone's going I'll have to come too," Madame Giraud said, trying to pout but only managing to smile. The five women looked around carefully, as if seeing each other for the first time. There was a mischief and a possibility in the air. The moment held taut – and then the Fishwife, finishing her carrots, turned to them and said,

"So am I or am I not bringing my knives?"

* * *

The Madame Bonacieux that greeted them at the door wore an expression of exhaustion quickly replaced by bemusement. She pulled her shawl over her shoulders and brushed her bright auburn curls out of her eyes.

"Um, hello?" she said. Six women blinked at her, the living embodiment of their somewhat harebrained scheme, and nearly lost all of their nerve.

"Madame Bonacieux," Madame Lefevre recovered soonest, and spoke brusquely. "May we come in?"

"All of you?" Madame Bonacieux asked incredulously. Then she remembered herself. "I mean – of course – my husband's not home at the moment- "

"Perfect," Madame Lefevre said, marching past her, trailed by the other five.

Madame Bonacieux settled them in the parlor, and rushed to the kitchen to tell the maid to prepare tea. Or something. Anything. She had no idea what kind of occasion this was, and therefore what kind of drinks it would require. She strongly suspected they would need something stronger than tea. That done, however, she very tentatively sat down with the other women, perched on the very edge of her chair.

"My dear Madame Bonacieux," Madame Barbier said. She had ended up closest to Madame Bonacieux, and so she reached over and took the young woman's hands in her own. "We have news – that is to say, information, that we thought you needed to know. And we thought it only right that we come here and tell you ourselves."

"What's wrong?" Madame Bonacieux asked, her features hardening. "If this is about me and D'Artagnan – "

"Who's -?" Madame Julien interrupted; then she caught herself. "Oh! The Lodger." Madame Bonacieux's brows knitted even further.

"It is and it isn't," Madame Lefevre said. "Mostly it's about your husband." Nobody missed Madame Bonacieux's involuntary flinch at the word.

"It's good news," Madame Giraud said. "Well, I suppose that's all in how you look at it." She shrugged artfully. "Did you say there would be tea?"

"It _is_ good news," Madame Aubert said, shooting an irritated glance at Madame Giraud. "This news," she continued dramatically, "will set you free."

"Oh, for God's sake," Madame Lefevre and Madame Barbier scoffed in unison. Madame Bonacieux lost her patience.

"Will somebody please just tell me?!" She yanked her hands out of Madame Barbier's.

"Your husband's a bit of a bastard," the Fishwife said calmly. She was in a corner, inspecting a few pieces of the Bonacieux's silver, and everyone had quite forgotten her. "But seeing as you probably already knew that, we've come to tell you that lately he's proven it again by faking a suicide attempt so you wouldn't run off with your Musketeer. Which," and she stopped rubbing the back of a spoon long enough to level Madame Bonacieux with a steady and meaningful gaze, "you should probably do. Because, to be honest, you look dreadful to me."

There was a pause.

"That… would seem to be the gist of it, yes," Madame Barbier said tightly. Everyone except Madame Bonacieux held their breath. Madame Julien, unable to stand the strain, crossed herself a few times.

"I…" Madame Bonacieux tugged her shawl even closer around her, like a woven shield. "Do you have proof?"

"My husband's word," Madame Giraud said indignantly.

"Monsieur Giraud says your husband paid for a carriage to bump into him, cut him up a bit." Madame Aubert explained, a little too eager. "So he didn't just jump, it was planned. And he probably didn't intend to die at all."

"Is it difficult to believe he would do something like this?" Madame Lefevre asked cautiously. Madame Bonacieux closed her eyes.

"No," she said firmly. "No, you know? It isn't at all." She dropped her chin into her chest. "Constance, you fool."

None of them were quite sure what they had expected, but the subdued, barely responsive woman in front of them was not it. Had they wanted her to spring up in joy, and immediately run to the Musketeers garrison, leaving them with her eternal love and gratitude? Possibly. Anyway it wouldn't have hurt.

"What are you going to do?" Madame Julien asked.

"I don't know," Madame Bonacieux replied. "I need… time."

"I think you should leave him," Madame Julien burst out emphatically. "I know it's not done, and it's dangerous and at first I thought it was a sin, but now I don't know! I thought everyone was as happy as Bertrand and I, because I thought marriage was for people in love, but I think I was probably a silly child and Ithinkthatyoushouldleaveyourhusband!"

"Well," said Madame Barbier.

"Brava," said Madame Aubert.

Madame Bonacieux smiled, for the first time that afternoon.

"Monsieur Bonacieux will be home soon," she said softly. "So it's probably best if you all go. But… thank you for coming. And I'm very sorry there was no time for tea." It was a dismissal, but a friendly one. They shuffled out awkwardly, leaving Madame Bonacieux silhouetted in her doorway.

"She's lovely," Madame Giraud remarked, surprising her compatriots. Seeing their faces, she flushed.

"Not very classic looks, maybe," she said quickly. "But you can't deny there's a kind of beauty there."

"If she were ugly, would she deserve her fate?" the Fishwife asked meditatively.

"She's kind," Madame Lefevre said gruffly. "That's more important."

"Why Madame Lefevre," Madame Aubert sounded mischievous. "Is that sentiment I hear?"

* * *

After a few weeks, the gossip around the Bonacieuxs faded to only the occasional mention here and there. No one had seen hide nor hair of Madame Bonacieux in some time, but Monsieur Bonacieux did not appear to be dead. Someone had continued to overcharge for his cloth and brag about his highborn connections and spend too much time at the taverns. He was irrelevant, anyhow: the talk now was almost entirely consumed by the progress of the Queen's pregnancy.

"You must keep this _utterly _amongst yourselves," Madame Aubert whispered urgently. The usual crowd pushed in very close. "I have heard a rumor – from whom I absolutely cannot tell you – that the father of the Queen's child _is not the king_." They all gasped, and Madame Lefevre swore.

"That's treason!" she hissed. "Say nothing like that to anyone but us!"

"Stupid idea, anyway," Madame Barbier added. "Honestly, you'll believe anything, won't you?" Madame Aubert rolled her eyes.

"It's only what I heard! And it's a good story. I'll bet things are like that at court anyway – can't you imagine it?"

"Shh!" Madame Giraud straightened up very suddenly. "Monsieur!" The women immediately stood at attention, gaping at the new arrival.

"It's you!" cried Madame Julien, before clapping her hands over her mouth. The Lodger – _D'Artagnan_ - appeared every inch the noble Madame Aubert had once thought him as he approached her stall in his robin's egg blue cloak and broad-brimmed hat.

"Good morning," he said, smiling slightly and sweeping his hat off to them. Madame Lefevre dropped her basket; Madame Giraud fluttered a hand over her heart; Madame Aubert had to clutch the stall to avoid swooning. Even the Fishwife was silenced.

"Er – I do have the right place? I'm looking for the vegetable seller Madame Aubert. And the blacksmith's wife, Madame Lefevre, and –" he stopped, pulling a scrap of paper out of his pocket. "And the candlemaker's wife Madame Giraud, and the baker's wife Madame Barbier, and the clerk's wife Madame Julien, and – " he paused again, consulting his list. "The Fishwife, whose name appears to be illegible." He gave the Fishwife a rueful look.

"Would you like to buy something, Monsieur D'Artagnan?" Madame Aubert said, her voice breathless and uncommonly high.

"Oh, no," the Lodger chuckled. "No, I mean, I heard you have the finest onions in the neighborhood, but – no. I came to say thank you."

"For?" Madame Barbier asked, momentarily drawing a complete blank.

"I'm told that you're the ones who told Constance – um, Madame Bonacieux – the truth about her husband. You gave her back to me. I can't thank you enough, for that." He smiled wider, fiddling with his hat and looking far less like a nobleman now. "I can never thank you enough."

"So is that where's she's been?" Madame Giraud said curiously. "With you?" He had the grace to blush.

"Yes," he replied, smile going crooked. "We're not sure what's going to happen, but she's not going back to her blessed husband. Not ever. She was spectacularly firm in that respect."

"Good for her." the Fishwife announced, rediscovering her voice.

"She was magnificent," the Lodger said proudly. "And I notice Monsieur Bonacieux hasn't made good on his threat? More's the pity."

"It would make things neater," the Fishwife agreed, to general discomfort.

"I'm happy for the both of you," chirped Madame Julien, resting her chin in her hands. "And despite it all I think Our Lord probably is too."

The Lodger gave them all a very strange look.

"Right, I'll be out of your hair then. Good day to you all." He replaced his hat, executed a little bow, and left shaking his head, trying not to laugh out loud where the women could still hear him. Porthos and Aramis would love this story, this unlikely chorus of avenging angels. He could picture their faces already.

"A nice man," Madame Barbier declared, watching him blend back into the street.

"A hotheaded boy," Madame Lefevre countered.

"A Musketeer," Madame Aubert sighed.

"Didn't even spare me half a glance," Madame Giraud said sadly. "He must really be in love."

"They must be, mustn't they," Madame Julien said with glee.

"Here now," the Fishwife had moved on, and was inspecting the day's crop of leeks. "What's this you were saying about the Queen?"

_Fin._


End file.
